


Tradition

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Grooming, Loss of Virginity, Political Alliances, Traditions, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 21:25:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15155963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Naboo have traditions that others don't quite understand.





	Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kurage_hime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurage_hime/gifts).



> Fair warning: Padmé is fourteen years old for a crucial part of this!

There are humans on more than half the known planets in the galaxy, and they're never very different from one planet to the next. Not really. Not when it comes down to basics.

That's something Padmé learned while she was still in training, at the Royal Academy before she'd ever thought she could be Queen of Naboo: humans are, essentially, the same. They have the same basic genetics and the same basic needs, and what separates them is the cultures that they build. 

Padmé doesn't believe that any culture, human or otherwise, is superior to any other, but she does recognise they have their differences. What separates her from her colleagues in the senate is her planet's traditions that have been passed down for so many hundreds of years. And, though some of what makes Naboo Naboo may resemble traditions she sees elsewhere, Padmé knows that specific combination is only found on her homeworld. 

There are many who don't understand the Naboo political climate, and the fact that their rulers are always so very young. Padmé wasn't the youngest queen, but she understands that their rigorous training means very little to people whose rulers are often elected at forty, fifty, sixty years old. She understands that their training means still less to those whose planets are ruled by hereditary monarchs, or ruled by committee, or ruled by the strongest warriors. 

Most would also fail to understand several of their other traditions. She can think of a few. She can think of one in particular.

Senator Palpatine - now _Chancellor_ Palpatine - has been a great aid to her throughout her career to date. They were introduced first when Padmé was still in training, when he spoke to her class at the academy, and he took an interest in her points in the debate. She remembers walking on the terrace with him afterwards, just for a few minutes, with the late afternoon sun blinking between the columns. He seemed impressed, but didn't pull his punches. She appreciated that.

They met again on an Apprentice Legislators' visit to the senate on Coruscant, when he took the time to join their tour, and she found he remembered her name. He called her by it when the tour was over, when he invited her to tea in his apartments, and he told her that recalling names was an important skill for a politician. Over the years, his advice has proved correct. 

When she was elected Supervisor of Theed, he happened to be home on Naboo on a brief trip from the senate. He attended the brief ceremony that marked her assumption of office and when she spoke to him at the small gathering afterwards, he almost seemed proud of how far she'd come. She supposed she couldn't grudge him that; they had kept in touch over the years since they'd met, every now and then, and his advice had always been invaluable. 

And so, when the time came, as their tradition dictated, she knew who she would choose. Though her advisers put forward other candidates, and she tried to accord them fair and equal consideration, she knew she knew already - he was the correct age and of the correct standing, after all, and their prior acquaintance made is seem appropriate. She called him in his apartments on Coruscant, and she tried not to blush as she made her formal request. 

"Of course, my dear," he told her, with a kindly smile that filled her with a hot flush of relief. "I'm flattered you would think of me." 

So, that was that. The arrangement was made.

For the first year, all that their arrangement entailed was conversations: they spoke once a week every week, about politics and about their home and their people, about her work and his, and about all the things that he'd done in his life up to that point. He told her about his start in their shared profession, and how wide his eyes had been the first time he'd set foot inside the senate. He told her about his hopes for her future, and for her career. He always seemed sincere; she'd never had a reason to doubt him. 

And then, in the second year, her fourteenth birthday came. She knew what that meant, according to tradition. Everyone around knew, and preparations were made even as the royal elections proceeded. When she was elected Queen of Naboo, when she put on her elaborate coronation dress and walked into the hall with her face painted, the senator was there with a kind smile. Her advisors told her not to be embarrassed; every daughter of the highest houses had their day, after all, and she was no different just by the fact of being queen. 

She remembers what they ate at dinner, in the banquet hall that was full almost to overflowing. She remembers what she was wearing, and how the high collar seemed too tight although she knew very well that it wasn't, and how all eyes strayed to her as she stood to leave the room at the appointed time. The senator stood, too, and she moved to take his arm. They left together as blush crept up into her cheeks. Everyone knew what came next, except it didn't. 

Tradition said that he should be her mentor, lending her his experience. Tradition said that he should mentor her in _all_ things. Padmé knows there are other human cultures that place a disproportionate importance on the fact of a woman's virginity and she thought at the time that with the banquet and the strictures of tradition, it seemed that their people also did, despite the fact they framed it as just another manner of instruction. She told him that, closed behind her bedroom door inside her private chambers, and he seemed to understand. 

"You know, your majesty," he said, with a hint of a smile and an amused glint to his eye. "No one will actually check." 

She laughed at that, feeling the tension ebb away. She thanked him, and maybe he did help her to remove her dress, but he averted his eyes as she changed into her nightdress. Then they talked, sitting together in her armchairs by the fire, and they smiled, and they laughed. They slept side by side in her bed, and he didn't touch her, not for a second, not even accidentally. Padmé found she appreciated that. 

She appreciated it so much that in the morning, when she woke, when she left the bed, she unbuttoned her nightdress and let if fall down to the ground. He watched her do it then he left the bed and she blushed as she watched him undress, and he moved toward her, naked; he rested his warm hands at her bare hips as he pressed a kiss against her forehead, her cheek, the far extremity of one collarbone; she lay down on the bed and he pressed a kiss in between her thighs. She closed her eyes. Her breath hitched.

He showed her what to do, just the way tradition said he should. No one would know the difference between the morning after and the night before, she thought, except the two of them.

Nine years later, she moved to Coruscant, a senator in her own right and him the Supreme Chancellor. Their formal association should have ended with her twenty-first birthday, but that hadn't been the case at all. They'd spoken over the years, regularly; she'd taken off her clothes in front of the screen as he watched her, as he'd told her what to do. She'd let the strained sound of his voice guide her hands over her skin, between her thighs. He'd sent her gifts that he could watch her using, and pretend they were his cock in her and not smooth polished glass or a shaped length of transparisteel with a chill that made her shiver. 

She needed no help to remove her dress the first time she stepped into his office. Every now and then over the years, she'd watched him stroke his length and say her name and she'd thought that they'd shared everything, or at least very nearly so, though in public they'd been the very picture of Naboo propriety. When he touched her then, for the first time in years, she knew she'd invited him to; every time he's touched her, his hands at her breasts or between her thighs, and every time he's entered her, his thick cock pushing deep as she pulls tight around him, she knows she's invited him to. 

She shouldn't have made that invitation: it's against every tradition of the planet that she serves. Perching on his desk now with her dress rucked up around her hips, he's down on his knees with his mouth between her thighs and she knows they shouldn't do this. Perching on his desk as he rises, as he draws out his cock, as he rubs the head against her and she wraps her legs around his waist to pull him in, she knows they shouldn't do this. But he's taught her that sometimes the appearance of upholding tradition is just as important as doing so. 

He's taught her so many, many things. And now they have traditions of their own.


End file.
